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“Yeah.” I’d accepted that truth a long time ago.
“So, you picked the wrong people. Twice. Big deal. Are you telling me you’ve never made a wrong turn in business? Never… I don’t know… funded the wrong project? Never put too much faith in the wrong people?”
“Obviously, I have.” I thought uncomfortably of Layla and all the things I’d stopped Reagan from telling me the other night. “Possibly recently.”
“Right. But you’re not breaking up with Pennington, are you? And you haven’t run it into the ground, unless I’ve missed some really big headlines. You care too much to let it fail, so you make the company a priority—figuring out what it needs, how to make it thrive, all that good stuff. And when you make a mistake, you take the time and trouble to correct it, even when it’s complicated and it’d be easier to say ‘fuck it.’” I could almost hear her shrug. “Hate to break it to you, but relationships with humans are pretty similar. The difference is, unlike a billion-dollar corporation, a human partner will simultaneously be prioritizing you and your needs… while also fucking you on the regular, which is a nice bonus if you’re into that sort of thing.”
She made it sound so simple, and maybe it was. But it definitely wasn’t easy. I had no idea where to begin. And the not-knowing was uncomfortable.
“Back to the original subject,” I said roughly. “We need to figure out what to do about Brantleigh. Or,” I said, remembering my conversation at dinner the night before, “what not to do. Have you heard about some article in the Times that says parents who view their kids as problematic create a self-fulfilling prophesy?”
“Actually, yes,” she agreed. “Because we jump in to provide them solutions rather than letting them learn they’re capable of figuring out solutions themselves. That’s why I told you that Paul and I aren’t giving Brant money anymore. If he wants to come here, he can live with me. I don’t want to see him on the street. But if he needs more out of life than a bed and three hot meals—and I really hope he does—he can figure out a way to get it without my interference. Or rescue,” she added. “It’s the failures in life that teach you what you really want and the kind of person you want to be.”
I blew out a breath and moved toward a display of candy and selected a toffee and chocolate bar for McGee, a Snickers for me, and a pack of watermelon bubble gum for Reagan. After so many days together stopping at rest stop gas stations, I knew everyone’s preferences without having to think. “Someone recently told me it’s funny how parents want to give their kids what they need but never seem to get that what they need is independence and respect.”
“Mmm. Your Reagan sounds like someone I want to know,” Thalia said.
“How do you know Reagan said it?” I asked, amused and more than a little excited about the idea of someone else calling him my Reagan.
“Dreamy voice,” she said succinctly. “Listen, talk to Brant. Explain that we’re giving up running his life for him but not giving up on him. And then I’ll get him back here, and we’ll figure out where to go from there.”
“Agreed. Thanks a lot, Thalia.”
When I put my phone away, I approached the counter and mumbled an apology to Pop.
He smiled and shook his head. “Nah. Family comes first. You’re Thatcher Pennington, right? The boy who helped our Flynn expand his business? We’re all grateful.”
It had been a while since I’d been called a boy, and I found myself smiling. “I’m the grateful one, sir. Your grandson is a keen businessman. You must be proud.”
“Of course.” Pop took my candy and rang it up on his giant, old-fashioned cash register. “Firecracker was always going to be a success. You couldn’t stop him even if you wanted to. Just like Mr. Important.” He leaned across the counter like he was imparting a secret. “I heard you talking about Reagan on your call. I should probably apologize for eavesdropping, but I love hearing someone say nice things about one of my favorite Honeybridgers.”
I was too distracted by this information to be embarrassed that he’d overheard. “You call Reagan… Mr. Important?” I grinned. I’d heard about the nickname tradition before—it was one of those quaint and quirky things I enjoyed about Honeybridge—but I’d somehow never known Reagan’s or even thought to ask until now.
“Yep. Figuring out a person’s true nature is… well, I suppose you might say it’s a hobby,” he said modestly. “That’s why Flynn is Firecracker, and Jonathan Wellbridge is Frog, and my boy PJ is Daydreamer—or at least he was, and I have faith he will be again.” Pop’s eyes twinkled. “Not surprised you’ve never heard Reagan’s nickname, though. Patricia’s sure as heck never called him that.”
“No,” I agreed slowly, registering the double meaning behind his words. “I don’t think she ever has.”
“You, on the other hand.” He set the final candy down and placed both hands on the counter before meeting my eyes. “I think you might understand why he earned that name.”
I shrugged. “Because he is important, obviously. He’s smarter than anyone gives him credit for and can succeed at anything he puts his mind to.”
“That,” Pop agreed easily. “Smarts is part of it, sure. Lord, he was a bright young thing. Biggest eyes you ever saw, and they didn’t miss a trick. But that’s not the whole reason.” He reached over and pulled out a stool so he could sit down, handed me my bottle of orange juice, and nodded at me to enjoy it if I wanted to. I cracked it open and took a sip, appreciating the cool, sweet slide of it on my parched throat.
“Reagan Wellbridge was born smiling.” Pop settled himself comfortably, like he was telling a bedtime story. “He was curious about everything, and I mean every dang thing. ‘Pop, what’s air? Pop, why’s it positively indecent for me to swim in the lake with no pants on? Pop, why’s my nanny watch that show about the doctors if it’s only gonna make her cry? Pop, what’s ‘children should be seen and not heard’?”
He chuckled, and I did, too.
“He still hasn’t learned that one, has he?” Pop asked fondly.
I gave him a half-smile. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’s learned that one too well.”
Pop looked at me frankly and nodded. “Maybe so. Maybe so.” His eyes went unfocused as he recalled himself to his tale. “All his life, wherever he went, Reagan made other folks smile, too. Turned out that curiosity of his was really a natural talent for setting people at ease and making ’em feel like they’re the only one in the room when he gives them his attention. When tensions are high, he’ll deliberately cause a ruckus just to get folks laughing, and when they’re sad, he’ll talk ’em ’round. He always seems to know just what people need… except himself.” He smiled ruefully.
“I think you’re right,” I managed, my chest tight.
“He’ll figure it out in time, though. Got a heart as big as the whole world hiding inside him, and those eyes still don’t miss a trick. Honeybridge wouldn’t be the same if he wasn’t around, and for sure the Wellbridges wouldn’t—their noses would’ve been too high in the air to get oxygen if Reagan wasn’t around to bring them back to earth. He’s the glue that holds ’em together and the grease that keeps ’em humming along. Nothing more important than that, far as I can tell.”
“Have you told him this?” I demanded hoarsely. “Have you ever explained why you gave him that name?”
